Taming the Stallion

Prologue

That Fateful Morning

Of all the backstabbing, spineless, ungrateful actions a man could do, this one took the cake. Moonlight filtered through the rectangular stable windows, outlining the young colt and the beefy gutless coward saddling him, right there in the center aisle. Ashton didn’t need to look to the right to know High Eminence’s stall was empty.

Of course he was stealing High Eminence.

Why wouldn’t he steal Emin?

Still, Ashton Lyre had a stable to run, an empire to uphold, and his honor to defend. He crept forward, not knowing if this most-unwanted guest was armed, and positive he could not cross the wide span of rubber-topped concrete to his office and his sidearm without being spotted.

Just as the cretin looped the cinch and began to tighten it, Ashton stepped forward. Need help, pal?

Horror and something akin to fury raged in those eyes, and the thief yanked hard on the cinch, making Emin’s head jerk up in shock.

Don’t. Don’t do this, Ashton pleaded with the thief. He’s just a colt.

Belying his size, this wretched monster of a human darted across the aisle and grabbed a shovel. A menacing snarl curled his lips as he ran near, swinging.

Emin panicked and danced away, his hooves clunking on the rubber tiles as Ashton jumped back from his foe. Large eerie shadows spilled from the young Standardbred across the dark corridor, making it harder for Ashton to see his adversary.

He managed to block the shovel.

With his head.

Blinding light flashed behind his eyes, and moisture, damp and sweet-smelling, oozed down his temple.

His foeman swore — as if he had the right — and sprung into the saddle. He spurred the horse hard and blasted past. One lucky grab told Ashton he’d managed to loosen a foot from a stirrup, but it wouldn’t be enough.

No, not today.

Not for this man.

The black-clad horse thief thundered down the corridors of Starstruck Stables, his knowledge of the layout as damning as the spurs he dug into the sulky racer’s sides.

High Eminence was broke to saddle as well as his jog cart, and his speed lent those freshly shod hooves wings. Ashton knew he’d have the proverbial snowball’s chance of catching up to him. Despite the flaring pain spurting behind his eyes and pulsing through his head like a stress squeeze toy, Ashton reached for the nearest stall and fumbled with the latch.

Typhoon.

Not the fastest horse in the barn. In fact, Typhoon had been relegated to stud these past three years.

Damn.

He didn’t have time to stumble in the dark, hoping to find a horse half capable of keeping up, when he knew the only one that could was Emin’s sire, Ralphie.

But Ralphie was dead.

No thanks to him.

Double damn.

He had to get him. Stop him. Had to.

He guided the stallion into the aisle and swung up, barebacked. He kicked Ty’s sides and yelled, Yah!

A female squeak of shock issued forth ahead of him; he followed the sounds of receding hoof beats and saw Raylie sitting at the bottom of the loft’s ladder. By the way she was sprawled and the anger radiating from her as she glared at the intruder, he could tell she didn’t fall off the ladder.

She’d been pushed.

If he hurt one hair on her head …

Stay here. Good God, did he just snarl at her as he galloped past? But he loved Raylie and he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her.

Not now.

Not when he’d just found her.

And now their suspect was getting away.

He called the man by name; demanded his return. It made no difference. Cool predawn air misted over his skin as he charged through the stable door and blasted across his rolling pastures, following the crushed grass wake of his fastest sulky racer.

He’d never catch up to Emin.

Not on this old ride.

Hooves thundered behind him, and he chanced a glance over his shoulder. God, he hoped it wasn’t another accomplice.

An armed accomplice.

How many of his horses were out tonight for a midnight run?

Inky blackness faded to the east as the hint of morning breached the horizon, sending the fields into a surreal realm he had never known. Ty’s breathing pulsed, his hooves pounded, his mane whipped. When was the last time he had run so hard?

In fact, when was the last time Ashton had?

Still, he never lost his sense of balance, even a few years later, and at five A.M. Wan yellow light sprinkled across the fields, making the dew glitter like so many ocean swells.

Emin veered around an oak tree, and Ashton heard a Yah, as the horse was directed straight into the fence.

He braced for the sound of splitting wood and splintering bones.

Emin ran straight on through.

No crash.

When Ashton guided Ty around the oak, he noticed the slats lying on the ground. Outraged, he screamed out a string of obscenities he was glad Raylie wasn’t around to hear.

The rider at Ashton’s back drew nearer, following their obvious wake. He leaned closer over the brown neck, making himself a smaller target should the other rider have a gun. Ty took the cue and stretched lower, his gallop turning faster.

They veered for the road, onto the asphalt of modern suburbia. Emin faltered on the pavement, his youth and training leaving him unprepared for the hard sensation thundering under his hooves, giving Ty a chance to draw nearer. Down flower-laden streets they went, until the gurgling of a diesel engine and the snake-like red glow of taillights dominated the road.

Oh my God, it was a trailer.

Starstruck’s gooseneck trailer.

And the horse was racing right toward it.

Ashton reached out, to stop him, to catch him, maybe even to save him, but Emin was still a length in the lead. He urged Ty faster, although he knew what was about to happen. He ran even, but instead of grabbing clothing, he reached as far as he could and snatched the bridle.

Someone revved the chugging engine, touched the brake. The lights blared red.

And then High Eminence did exactly what Ashton knew he would do.

• • •

Eleven days earlier

Ashton’s hands shook as he flipped open his cell phone. The numbers wavered through his unshed tears, but he managed to press 9-1-1.

9-1-1. What’s your emergency?

His mouth bounced wordlessly as he tried to form words around his tight throat. I … I need to report two murders.

Where?

He gave her his name and street address.

Then, Do you know the victims?

Yes. He gripped the phone tight in his hand, tried to swallow.

First victim’s name, please.

Ralphie.

Last name?

Man, she was annoyingly professional amidst his despair. He hedged. Wing.

Age of first victim?

Twenty.

Your relationship to the victim?

That one caught him off-guard. Adopter? Owner? Guardian.

Sir, I’m dispatching police and ambulance to your address. Do you know who could have done this?

He stared into the stall as a few of his stable hands drew near, horror and shock freezing their expressions as they stared at the two dead horses.

They were too young and innocent to commit this atrocity. No.

He sensed her nod on the other end. Name of the second victim?

Not so easy. Um … Monarch.

Monarch?

Yes. He bit his lip.

Last name?

Ashton leaned back. He doesn’t have one.

She paused. Age?

Five.

Weight?

Weight? She didn’t ask that a minute ago. Ashton shook his head, tore off his Stetson and wiped his brow with his forearm. About four-hundred fifty-five … kilograms.

"Kilograms?"

Silence.

That’s, like, over a thousand pounds. Are these people or just animals?

Slamming his hat back on, Ashton bit out the one retort people would never expect from a tycoon. They’re not ‘just animals’ to me. These two horses are worth over four million dollars, and yesterday they were fine, and today they’re —

Sir, sir, she interrupted. I appreciate your loss. But animals are property. Not only are they out of the police’s jurisdiction, but you can’t murder personal belongings.

No one ever understood how much his horses meant to him. Especially the two that he stared at right now. Ma’am, someone killed them. Cold-hearted. I need help. I need cops. Evidence collected. Fingerprints, something!

He heard her take a deep breath. Sir, I’m going to give you the phone number of the local humane society.

Shoulders dropped as he closed his eyes. "No, not them. I want cops."

They have Peace Officers. They have all the same legal powers as the police.

Wannabees, he muttered. He’d never had problems with the local law enforcement, of course. His horses were probably the best tended animals on the planet. But he’d always heard about confiscations, zealots, gunshot dogs from trigger-happy raids on drug houses. The last thing he wanted was someone coming in here, criticizing every nuance of his business. — Half cup too much grain. Fifteen minutes too long exercising. Forty-five seconds too long in the sun without shelter. Good God, it would be enough to drive him crazy.

He crushed the brim of his hat at the thought.

Do you have a pen, sir?

He trudged across the aisle to his glass-walled office and grabbed paper and ink. Yeah, I’m ready.

She recited the exchange. Ashton mumbled a platitude and hung up.

Young Henry waited outside the door, scared and pale. The kid didn’t deserve to be exposed to death like this, even if he did want to go to vet school in three years. Ashton pulled open the door and stood there. He felt wrapped in cotton, heavy, slow, and every noise seemed muffled, hard to hear. Hard to see.

Sir? What should we do?

Gone. Two of them. Just like that. He rubbed his eyes, trying to get the scratchy gauze out of them.

Tentative, Henry whispered, Sir?

He took a deep breath, looked around and almost didn’t recognize the place. Don’t touch anything. Watch the rest of them like a hawk. Make sure they’re all acting normal. He flipped open his cell and began dialing the number he just wrote down. We’re going to have the monkey squad here soon.

He feared they would drive him bananas.

Chapter 1

She felt it straight down to her bones. Maybe it stemmed from working so closely with Mother Nature’s creatures, or maybe it was because of her years of job experience, or maybe even Angie watched out for her from the Great Beyond and still took care of her to this day, but Raylie knew the dreams were about to manifest into existence.

Soon.

Dead horses.

Of late, they were always about dead horses.

Raylie clenched her eyes shut and inhaled deeply, trying to erase the dream images that had plagued her these last two weeks as she turned her key in the black STAFF ONLY door. Cheddar spun and barked as he dashed around the empty lobby of the waking humane society, greeting each of her co-workers with his usual early morning vigor.

At least one of them liked Mondays.

That was only because Cheddar hadn’t written a single report in the whole twenty-four months of his life. And, of course, he remained blissfully devoid of prophetic dreams.

The community corkboard showed a Thoroughbred mare for sale — a new posting. Two omens. Tomorrow, perhaps. Maybe even today. Not good.

These days Raylie needed the extra motivation; after all, with Jim two months from retirement, and a juicy field chief spot opening up, Raylie needed all the arrests she could get. With the promotion she could pay off Angie’s house and move into the restored one provided by the shelter. Then, and only then, would she be able to move on with her life.

Hey, Ray.

The sound of hooves clomping inside drew her attention. She turned and smiled at the woman — in clogs, not horseshoes — walking past on the gray ceramic tiled floor, carrying an armful of donated towels. Omen Number Three. Hi, Jen. Raylie pulled open the door to the lit hallway and Cheddar raced on ahead.

Only on Mondays did Raylie enter through the main lobby, instead of the staff entrance around back where her office was. She glanced around at the many furry faces, spurring herself to save more of the wee beasties, like Flotsam, the black kitty tossed into a dumpster, now up for adoption. Or Barnum, the English Bulldog, left behind when the owners moved out. Or even Miranda, the lop rabbit, whose owners went to jail for thirty days for setting her free in the local park.

Many new homes were found here. But never enough.

Raylie grimaced as she followed her orange and white linebacker down the hallway, reminding herself she couldn’t save all of them. She saved him, of course, her first month on the job. Twelve weeks old, half-starved, chewing on a tuna can. He’d been timid and fearful, with cuts on his soft pink mouth from the sharp edges.

Her excitable Pit Bull now spun in front of the Cruelty Department door, stepping on his leash over and over, tripping himself in his eagerness.

One warning bark — barely knee-high — issued from behind the door. Little footprints danced in the fluorescent crack.

You want ’im? You want ’im?

Happy toes clicked on the linoleum as Snort gave one more warning bark.

Go get ’im. Ray whipped open the door.

A fawn Pug leaped up at Cheddar, and her linebacker skidded to his shoulder in submission. Coward, she muttered.

Snort postured over him, a burbling growl in his throat as Cheddar exposed his groin and looked away.

Snot, she said as she brushed past.

Snort, Leann, the department’s secretary, corrected automatically. As usual, she was early to work and ready to save lives.

Ray grinned as the aroma of hazelnut teased her. Snort, Snot. What’s an ‘r’ between friends? She blew an air-kiss to the caged canary as she gave him fresh food and water. The bird had been found starving in a home after the owner died and was a new shelter resident. He finally seems to be putting on weight. I thought we were going to lose him.

He sang for a minute yesterday. Should be ready for adoption soon. Leann was already listening to the phone messages as Ray glanced at the inbox on her adjacent desk. Hopefully she’d get to the paperwork tomorrow. Mondays were usually too busy, and the notes that Leann had already filled out were piling up on the corner. Leann glanced up. You look like shit, she said with her usual inter-friend tact.

Raylie pointed to her head as she poured herself a cup of motivation. Hair gel shower. Someone dumped a litter of kittens in my backyard. She gave her a rueful glance. Coaxed the last one out of the tree at three A.M.

Leann considered her. I think I’ll make you a badge … , she made a circle with her hands, … ‘Defender of All Things Furry.’ Receiver to her ear, Leann smirked. Her black hair and dark eyes were far softer than her words. Everything about Leann, in fact, was gentle, from her long lashes to her fabrics. Even her soft curls sensibly bounced along her shoulders to frame her face. Although probably ten years older than Ray, she could pass for a college student. Leann frowned and wrote something down, announced, Dead cat, then pushed a button for the next message.

Knowing she had a few minutes to spare, Raylie gathered up the guinea pig with a cast on its rear leg and snuggled him close. She slipped some fresh parsley from the office fridge under his nose and watched him tear into it. She leaned against her chunky wooden desk and watched Leann do her thing. Had the dream again.

Second hang-up, Leann muttered, but then she looked up, and her shoulders dropped. Again? That’s what, like ten times? I swear you’re psychic.

Am not. Besides, it changed this time.

Leann cradled the receiver, giving Raylie her full attention. More than the clean fluffy stalls?

Yeah. She returned the pig to his cage. I was getting a lot of details this time. Weird. Like waxed hooves. Glossy coats. Braided manes. Really healthy.

Show horses.

She sipped her coffee, held her eyes. Yeah. She glanced into the corner. And I could smell …

Horse dookie? Her lips twitched.

No. Money.

That one word made Leann sit tall in her chair. Your dream smelled like money? Girl, sign me up.

She merely shook her head. It was really unsettling.

What’s unsettling is how many animals you’re trying to cram in here. But, yeah, it is hard to arrest someone whose horses are sparking clean.

They need me, Raylie said, smiling at the turtle recovering from shell rot. And, besides, what better place to have them heal than in the Cruelty Department? Isn’t that why we’re here? To help animals?

"Those animals. Leann pointed out the window and smiled, then her expression turned playful. This is why your dreams are so funky. That, and all those horse races you’ve been going to. You got to cut back."

Leann didn’t know this, but once Derrick died, Raylie hadn’t taken a single step near the beasts, unless her job demanded it. Even then, she was so incredibly tense she usually gave herself a headache.

Dang it, there goes my fun. She drew some antibiotics into an oral syringe, went to the rabbit cage and squirted the strawberry-flavored goop into the New Zealand’s mouth. She checked the wound from the cuterebra and said, "Looks like it’s healed. Hopefully he’ll get an indoor home this time, away from botflies."

Leann’s tongue poked out of her mouth. Maggots are so gross. But then she brightened. Oh, I need your phone number. You promised me you’d fill in for bowling, and my sister’s still off her foot. Then Leann multitasked, shoving her a pad and pen and returning to her messages. The girl was good, Ray had to admit. ’Course, she was the first receptionist to run the department when it was created seven years back. Had it running like a hound on a coon’s scent by the time Raylie applied two years ago.

Grumbling, she scrawled the word Me and her phone number under her shelter’s logo. She hated bowling. Why am I doing this, again?

Because you promised. Then that gentle smile dropped, and Leann started scribbling down the latest phone message.

Here it comes.

When Ray leaned forward, Leann shielded the note. One deep breath later, she pushed the SAVE button and looked up. With a reluctant flourish, she tore the report from the pad. Looks like your dream is now your eight A.M. nightmare.

And there it was. Raylie swore a horse just kicked her in the gut. Oh, God, why?

Leann stuck out the paper. Two Standardbreds found dead at Starstruck Stables.

The headache surged to life.

Damn it, she hadn’t even tensed up yet.

• • •

After taking a few minutes to digest the bad news — and breathe away her headache — Raylie sipped her coffee and flipped through her day’s work with the other hand. Dead cat, dog without shelter, two dead horses — a shiver of cold raced down her back as her pulse thrummed loud in one ear. Johanssen’s house again.

She moaned, tipped back her head. How many this time?

Eyes closed, Leann shook her head and said, At least thirty cats. Phone guy reported her. Turned out one of them ate the cord.

With a derisive snort, Ray said, Probably the only food in the house.

Yeah, guess they didn’t like the marbles she fed them last time. Too hard to chew.

Futility roared within her. "You know, I didn’t spend my life wanting to save animals only to have the same situation in the same house play out over and over again. When’re we gonna get a sympathetic judge? Every six